


A Hard Night’s Work

by irenesadler



Series: The Partisan: or the Art of Making War in Detachment [2]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: A lot of jokes, Action, Arson, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Gallows Humor, Humor, Letters, Male-Female Friendship, Mystery, Prisoners, Women in the Military, just two best friends solving crimes, lots of fighting, questionable life lessons, swears
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-11
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:10:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26400124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irenesadler/pseuds/irenesadler
Summary: or, “how Vernon Roche captured the Redanian Camp Arsonist, an Eyewitness Account,” by Ves (formerly of the Temerian Special Forces)
Series: The Partisan: or the Art of Making War in Detachment [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1304999
Comments: 8
Kudos: 7





	1. a letter

**Author's Note:**

> a mystery that is not a murder.  
> (also, continuing bad habit of extrapolating on non-explained canon events and material.)  
> the characters Cozent and Idler appear in other parts of this series, but it isn't necessary to read those to follow this one. or the other way around, rlly.
> 
> most things are a nightmare and everything that isn't that is depressing here in the US of A, please enjoy this ultraviolent buddy mystery/action/comedy as a brief distraction from the nonstop exhausting grind of everything else.

part 1.

a letter:

To: T. Merigold _in_ ~~Oxenfurt~~ Novigrad, Hierarch Square -

Dear Triss,

How did Vernon Roche come to meet Radovid, you asked? Like most meetings, mostly by chance, at least on his part. Now, seeing as the bastard’s dead (Radovid, not Vernon), there’s nothing to stop anyone from telling the tale. Well, except Roche himself, but as he ain’t much for reading, he may never know the story got out:

It happened not long after we first arrived in Velen. In not much time we’d assembled about a dozen recruits of varying quality to add to the handful of Temerian soldiers we’d brought from Dol Blathana. Eventually we identified a supply route for the Nilfgaardian army. On this road was a creek deep in the woods, and an isolated bridge that crossed it. The plan was to destroy the bridge, by burning it and then breaking whatever remained apart, as, like most things in Velen, it was of shaky construction. To this end, Roche selected two of his most competent recruits: a local stonecutter turned rebel called Petr Grath, who knew the area well, and an ex Temerian infantryman by name of Cozent Everart. Also, I went along. Of course.

Things went south right as soon as we got to the bridge. A cold drizzle had started falling sometime well after midnight, making it nearly impossible to light a fire. Then, as Cozent and I were sitting on the wet bridge with a bundle of papers and oily rags to try anyway, we heard boots and wagons tramping through the dark woods. We glanced at each other, in the little bit of light that came from our shaded lantern, and then both hopped down the steep bank and into the stream below, under the bridge. I put the lantern out. Roche and Petr were already down there; I couldn’t see their faces, but I’d caught a glimpse of the tense set of the Commander’s shoulders just before the light went out. He clearly didn’t feel too hot on the situation.

Nor did I, and not just because of how icy water was already leaking steadily into my old boots. The train of people who were soon crossing over our heads rattled with armor as expected, but those that were complaining about the weather or the late hour weren’t speaking Nilf. The only other possible choice for an armed convoy in that area was they were Redanians. The light from their torches reflected off the water, so I could see Roche’s scowl as he looked up overhead and presumably thought along the same lines I was. Cozent looked about the same. Petr’s eyes were wide with fear – he was no soldier - and as I looked his way, he suddenly jammed his left hand over his nose and then sneezed so loud it startled a horse up on the bridge.

A brief, almost comical pause followed, and then more soldiers than the four of us could fight at once jumped or stumbled down the slope and into the creek. We of course tried anyway, but not for long. Cozent and I were side to side and fully prepared to carve a bloody path to freedom or die trying, but Petr went down with a crossbow bolt to the thigh and grabbed wildly at my sword arm in a panic as he did, so I was hampered in my progress just enough for a couple of our assailants to keep me from doing much else. Cozent was likewise surrounded and captured a few breaths later, although he managed to at least put one enemy down in the attempt. Roche, on the other hand, had a sword in one hand and a torch in the other and might well have gotten away if one of our captors hadn’t loudly prevailed on him to surrender. With the three of us out of commission, he took the warning that our lives hung on his compliance and dropped both weapons with a frustrated snarl on his face. That accomplished, the pack of soldiers who’d laid hold of us dragged us all up the bank and onto dry land. I of course struggled, but after I kicked one of my captors in the shin and bit another one whose hand got too close to my face, someone put me in a chokehold until another shoved a sack that reeked of garlic over my head and my hands were tied behind my back.

“Bitch,” one of them growled, as my neck was released. I disregarded this, being busy trying to breath normally again. Also, another discussion nearby was of more interest than his opinion of my personality:

"Who the fuck are you people?" An enraged voice demanded.

“Emhyr var Emrys,” came Roche’s weary response. “Spice merchant.”

Dead silence followed this astonishing announcement. I heard Cozent snicker at whatever was going on outside of the bag. Eventually, a new voice said, “Hang on, I seen him before. He’s wanted. The outlaw Vernon Roche. He’s worth two hundred Novigrad crowns.”

This last comment had a definite hint of deep personal excitement.

“How much for the gang?” asked someone else.

“Nothing, far as I know. May as well hang ‘em right now, save us dragging ‘em around half the night-”

“Do that,” Roche interrupted calmly, “And I swear every one of you will die the same way.”

From anyone else that statement would have been laughed off, under the circumstances, but instead a brief and very uneasy pause followed it.

“Well,” someone suggested finally, “Maybe we can still get something for ‘em, anyway. Least for the woman, if none else. Pack ‘em up, boys, and let’s be on our way. Be sure you tie up the outlaw well.”

“Rory, go on ahead, let the fort know what’s goin’ on,” he added. As I was dumped heavily into a wagon, the sound of a horse galloping off through the puddles could be heard. The convoy, in due time, got going. I heard Roche ask about Petr, who weakly replied that he was “not dead yet, sir,” and then, when Cozent began to hold forth on a similar event that had occurred in the wilds of Aedirn, I dozed off. Given that I could neither move or see, there seemed little else to do. In my experience, it’s best to sleep when an opportunity presents itself. Never know when there’ll next be a chance.

Sometime later, I woke up due to some intuition that circumstances had changed. The wagon jerked to a halt the second after I sat up. The rain had stopped, I noticed, but cold and wind had replaced it. Someone presently yanked the sack off my head to prove there was something under it and I squinted into the light of dawn. We had arrived in an army camp, presumably Redanian, what looked much like any other military base of any kingdom save for the different banners. Muddy, stinking, gloomy. You get the picture. I noted on looking around that Petr was looking awful pale, probably due to the bolt still sticking out of his left leg.

The soldier who’d climbed into the wagon and removed my bag had a similar thought, it seemed, as he said, “This one ain’t looking so good, Captain. We can’t transport _him._ ”

A new face appeared over the edge of the wagon; a red-bearded surly looking creature with bloodshot blue eyes and a rusting helmet on his head. I traded a confused glance with Cozent, who shrugged – nobody had put a sack on _his_ head, I noticed – and then the red-bearded man, evidently the Captain, said, “He don’t matter; I’ve only got orders to take the outlaw over the river, not the rest of this trash.”

_Over the river_ sounded highly ominous to me. I stirred myself, casting a worried look at Roche, and said, “Hold it, take me instead. I’m much more interesting than he is.”

The offer was ignored by all, except for Roche who looked my way and smiled briefly. So it ended up that me and Cozent and the unlucky Petr were unceremoniously removed from the wagon and I was stuck watching as it vanished out the camp gate, headed to who knew where, with the Commander still sitting in the back.

After this we were taken to “the lockup”, which turned out to be a rotten old wellhouse. Here the ropes that tied us were switched out for iron manacles, with a threat to me about keeping still if I didn’t want anything bad to happen to the rest, and then we were left briefly alone. The roof, such as it was, had big enough holes in it to let enough light through to see, but that was about all the good that could be said about the place.

“Well, least we’re the only prisoners in here,” Cozent remarked. I did not find the observation particularly heartening.

“Can’t see as anything nice happened to the last set,” I remarked darkly. Petr chose that moment to stir and say, weakly, “This is all my fault.”

“That it is,” Cozent answered him cheerily. I sighed.

“For fuck’s sake don’t apologize, Grath,” I said, “I’m not in the mood.”

The appearance of yet another Redanian soldier didn’t improve it, especially as he dropped a collection of bandages and the like in front of me and snarled my way, “You there. Fix this one’s leg. Can’t have ‘im keel over dead just yet. _Apparently._ ”

“I’m _not_ a medic,” I snapped back. The Redanian looked confounded by the news.

“You’s a woman, ain’t ya?” he asked me, but before I could say anything else Cozent speedily cut in:

“I’ll do it. You’re gonna have to loose my hands, though.”

This was done, somewhat grudgingly, with a “no funny business” type warning. The soldier left, and that was the last we saw of anyone but our three selves for quite a long while.

Don’t know if this is common knowledge, but jail is boring. After Cozent got done with his hamfisted medical intervention and pronounced the patient alive but unconscious, there was nothing else to do but sit and brood.

“What’d they do with the Commander, do you think?” Cozent asked me at some point, but I didn’t want to speculate as the answer that was most probable was that he was dead somewhere. Or would be, shortly. I just shrugged and tried to act as nonchalant as I possibly could about it, which didn’t fool him but what can you do. A long time passed in silence after that and as more rain started to drip down out of the holes in the roof a feeling of deep gloom came over me. It started to get dark again. Cozent’s stomach rumbled. I would have chewed my nails, probably, if they weren’t locked away behind my back. I knew it was past time for me to start considering our next move and that the Commander, whatever had happened to him, wouldn’t be pleased if he’d known I hadn’t yet come up with one. 

Cozent and I therefore discussed the matter, in hushed tones. It was decided that he would try to take out the next guard that came in to visit us, as his hands were free. If he managed – _when_ he managed, he corrected – he’d change clothes with the guard and pretend he was escorting us elsewhere.

“Sounds okay,” Petr rasped, surprising both of us as we hadn’t noticed he was back with the living, “But it’d work better if you was to leave me here.”

“Not happening,” I replied immediately. “We all go or we all stay.”

As I said this, someone started unlocking the door. Cozent nodded at me, lurched to his feet, and stood waiting. It opened. A bright lantern dazzled my eyes and silhouetted his burly form in black as he briefly struggled with whoever held it. The effort ended with him being smacked hard in the head by a blackjack the guard held; he stumbled back and sat down, holding his skull.

“Nice try,” the ill-shaven man with the lantern said. I recognized him immediately: he was the one who’d driven the wagon that had taken Roche off to who knew where. Another voice said from beyond the doorway, “Just get the girl and let’s go, already,” in an unenthusiastic tone. I felt about the same about the idea as he did. However, after an entire day spent chained up in a dank hole with nothing to eat or drink, I was not in any shape to fight it, and so I was hauled outside, leaving Cozent and Petr still wallowing around on the floor.

“That dog bites,” a third, also-familiar guard with a bandage on his fingers told his buddies, as the door was locked again behind me. The same garlicy bag went back over my head as a result. The stench did nothing to make me less hungry, but it _did_ combine with my empty stomach to make me a little queasy and then inexplicably angry as I was escorted off to parts unknown. I dragged my feet quite a bit along the way as a result, earning me no love from the guards. Still, if I was to be taken off to the gallows, I didn’t figure on making it too easy for them. When I was instead pulled up a short set of steps and then deposited roughly on the stone floor of a room where the door was slammed shut behind, I started to wonder if maybe a rope was the better end of the raw deal I could expect to receive. An uneasy minute or so passed; the door then opened again and a voice asked, sarcastically, “ _This_ is your bodyguard? You sure?”

Someone yanked the bag off my head. I had spent the minutes mentally preparing myself to see just about anyone at all, but not, obviously, Vernon Roche. I blinked dazedly up at him as he said, irritably, “Yes,” to the red-bearded Redanian Captain, and then, “Give me the keys to the manacles and go away.”

The man who had brained Cozent looked dubious, but at his boss’s nod he did what Roche wanted, was rewarded by having the sack half-thrown at him, and then both Redanians departed. As the door was shut behind them, the Commander turned a raised eyebrow on my stunned stare. I was still sitting in a state of mild shock. I scrambled up off the floor, with some difficulty, and said, stupidly, “I thought you was dead, Vernon. Probably.”

“Did you really? Well, you aren’t the first person to make that mistake,” he replied, mildly.

“Then what the hell?” I asked, which got me an amused huff and a warning, as my hands were freed, that the explanation he was going to give was not to be shared around:

“Especially,” he added, frowning, “Don’t tell your friend Cozent Everart.”

Anyway, what had happened was while myself and the boys were cooling our heels in that wellhouse turned jail, Roche had been _literally_ taken across the river, to the other side of the Redanian border checkpoint, and then to an empty house near Novigrad, where after a demonstrative wait of some hours’ duration, Radovid the Fifth of his name had come marching in the door..

(I here interrupted to verify that, yes, the King of Redania was who Roche meant, as I briefly wondered if I had imagined it due to hunger.)

..and then, Vernon Roche and he had a conversation which went something like this:

Roche: What the hell is this?

Radovid V: Commander Roche. We’re a big fan of your work. We require your assistance in a pressing matter: we find ourselves dealing with a possible saboteur in our camps, whose preferred method is arson. We’d have you find and capture the perpetrators of these attacks.

VR.: Why me?

RV.: In truth, ‘twas you and your nest of vipers that my agents first suspected as being responsible, but as a crime was carried out last night, after we already had you in custody, clearly ‘tis not your doing. They now suspect Scoia’tel raiders. You are, of course, well-known for the success of your efforts to suppress those terrorists.

VR.: True.

RV.: We do not, I imagine, need to discuss how it will go with you should you refuse. Or, for that matter, fail in the task.

VR.: No.

RV.: We look forward to word of your success, at which time your life and freedom will be granted.

VR.: What about my men?

RV.: Yes, yes. Them too. They’ll remain in custody meanwhile.

VR.: Well, I’ll need my bodyguard released. This is dangerous work.

RV.: Yes, very well.

Following this Roche was returned to the fort and had immediately had me fished out of the lockup. I rubbed the welts on my wrists that the manacles had left, frowning as I thought things over.

“So, uh, what now?” I asked, failing to come up with anything more helpful to say. Roche shrugged and said, “Guess we’re now looking for saboteurs. How are the others?”

“Alive, at least,” I answered, “But getting pretty hungry. Also thirsty.”

My subtle hint was taken. I diverted my attention for some minutes to eating, while Roche went off to visit the remaining convicts, and then we were off immediately as it seemed Petr weren’t looking too good and there was, Roche said, “No time to waste.”


	2. vernon roche investigates

  1. vernon roche investigates:



We did not have to go far; just outside the little fort was the camp of an infantry division and in the middle of the maze of tents a large, burned open area. Scraps of cloth and chunks of charred wood were mingled into the ash. Some unenthusiastic soldiers poked through the soggy, black mess with shovels. This was, we were told by our escort – the red-bearded Captain, whose name was Werth, and his blackjack-wielding lackey – the remains of a barracks tent.

“Went up just about a week and a half ago,” Werth said.

“Any survivors?” Roche asked, naturally.

“Ah, was empty at the time,” says Werth. “The division as owned it’d moved out on a field exercise for a few days.”

“Any witnesses at all?” Roche said to this. Werth shook his head and shrugged vaguely.

“Well, there’s a guard,” his lackey interrupted, earning himself a glare from both men. He looked down at his feet until they lost interest in him, then shot me a quick, curious glance. I scowled back immediately. He returned to studying his own boots.

“Well, go get him then,” Roche said after a lengthy pause. Werth sent his crony off on the mission, and Roche waited, arms crossed, for him to return. This took quite a long time, which Werth and Roche spent quietly absorbed in mutual simmering hatred. The result was that when the hapless guard was delivered to their presence, Roche instantly began angrily grilling the poor fool.

“Name?”

“Moth,” was the entirety of it. I noted a distinct reek of liquor drifting downwind from the man to where I was standing.

“You were on watch here when this happened?”

A halting “Yes, sir,” was the answer. He’d been just over there, as it happened, we were told, with an accompanying, slightly shaky, pointed finger at a spot some dozen feet away from the burnt area. As for if Moth had seen anything unusual before the fire started, we were informed he had observed “no thing at all” for the duration of his watch, on his rounds or otherwise. At least, as he noted, until the fire had happened, of course. What a pity that was.

How often were rounds made? Every half hour, more or less. I suspected right away that _more_ was the expectation, but _less_ was the norm.

“Show us your route,” Roche demanded, and so we took a walk in a loop around nearby tents, past some outhouses, and then around the far edge of the blackened ruins which would have been the back side of the barracks. I trailed along behind the men, not listening to the conversation, such as it was, and kicking idly through the outer edge of the mess. As we neared the farthest edge from Moth’s supposed guardpost, I noticed something shiny in the wreckage, so I stopped and looked around. Nobody seemed to be paying much attention to me. I therefore crouched down, picked the item up, and pocketed it quickly. While standing up I thought I caught the lackey looking at me again, but if he was he turned away quick and I couldn’t be sure. To be safe, I joined the rest of the group and listened to the last of Moth’s pathetic testimony:

“I were just at the front of the tent there, round about midwatch I’d say, and all a sudden I start smelling smoke but that ain’t unusual so I ignore it, and next thing I know the whole damn thing’s gone up in flames. They say it was Squirrels that did it, but I never seen no elves in this camp. ‘Cept dead ones, I mean. You ain’t here to court-martial me, is you? Sir? Sirs?”

Roche made no reply to the question; we finished our tour and returned finally to where it had begun.

“We’re done here,” he announced. Moth was summarily ejected from the group by his countrymen; during the brief disturbance that ensued I passed Roche the thing I’d found on the ground. It was a scarred and rusting piece of steel, hammered into the rough shape of a flattened oval. Roche eyed it, noticing, as I had, that well-worn letters had been crudely stamped into the inner curve of the object.

“What’s that?” asked Werth, noticing us. Roche immediately chucked the thing away into the edge of the burnt area and shrugged.

“Junk,” he said, and we were off again. I drifted slowly along in the trio’s wake, as we headed back toward the fort whence we’d come and then, when Roche suddenly stopped and pointed off at a guard tower and began an involved discussion of the closeness of the forest to it, nonchalantly ambled the hundred or so yards back to the spot and reclaimed the item which he’d thrown away. It was not, as he’d said, junk, but was in fact the metal part of a firestriking tool. I just had time to shove it safely inside my jacket before Werth and his thug noticed my absence and ungraciously fetched me back.

“Wander off like that again,” Werth snarled at me, “And you won’t be wandering no more, got it?”

I did not argue the point, but I did casually ask Werth how he and his lackey had got by so long on only one brain between the two of ‘em.

“Fuck you,” the Captain replied.

“No thanks,” I mumbled, just loud enough for Roche to hear. He acknowledged the joke with a smirk.

Then we were back in that wagon and taken to a different but similar camp, located just by the bridge that Roche had earlier that day crossed. The crime scene was an ordinary sort of woodshed, somewhat blackened and singed. Again, we were told, no casualties. Beside the shed was a stable where half a dozen horses were kept. It was untouched.

“Would’ve burnt up the horses, for sure,” our latest witness said, “Had it gone up.”

“When did this happen?” Roche asked him, in a less antagonistic tone than he’d used to interrogate Moth. The stable hand we were speaking to was of a less pathetic and more observant type. Also, he appeared to be sober.

“Oh, just last night.”

“Fire didn’t spread on account of the rain, I bet,” I commented, remembering Cozent and my’s failed attempt at arson ourselves. Roche nodded.

“See anyone suspicious?” he asked. “Human, elf, whatever.”

He received a shrug and headshake. Lots of suspicious people were always around; this was the border, after all. Roche eyeballed the little crowd of onlookers who’d assembled to observe the conversation and nodded again with a twitch of impatience crossing his face. There was no saying that the man didn’t speak true enough, though; even as late as the evening was growing, there was no letup to the crowd of would-be refugees and worse. The witness was dismissed. I then followed Roche as he strolled round the back side of the half-burned shed and managed not to slam into his back as he suddenly halted directly in front of me and pretended to study the dark, muddy field beyond.

“What do you think, Ves?” he asked. I had quickly recovered from my near-accident and was eyeballing our babysitters, who had been distracted from watching us by the arrival of a couple down at heel whores. I replied, "Reckon I could run for it right now and get away easy enough, if that’s in the cards?”

“No,” Roche said, after a moment’s consideration of the idea, “I think things are going fine as they are, for now. Anyway, I meant about the fires.”

“Oh. Well, uh, I don’t figure that Squirrels got anything to do with them,” said I. “This ain’t their style.”

Werth and lackey had been rejected by the women; they came our way with some anger on the former’s face.

“Fuck’s she talking about?” he asked Roche, who spotted my irritated scowl at being talked past and nodded quickly at me to explain. So I did, orders being what they were, although not in a very civil tone.

“Squirrels wouldn’t burn a barn without trying to get at the horses inside first,” I said. “And I never known a Squirrel to be dumb enough to risk going to the middle of an enemy camp just to burn an empty tent down when there’s a perfectly good armory to hit instead.”

“How do you know this stuff?”

The latest interruption was by the lackey, who stared at me in what seemed to be honest curiosity.

“Personal experience,” I told him, in a less rude tone. He nodded at the news and then Werth took over with offensive rigor and reminded me of my annoyance:

“So what, then? Who done all this shit?”

I shrugged. Roche shrugged.

With that, we were on to the next place, which was located on the other side of the checkpoint. I had planned on using the travel time to close my eyes a while, as it had been a trying day with no sign of an end coming, but as the wagon rumbled along over the bridge Roche caught my eye and indicated by subtle expressions that he wished for me to have a chat with Werth’s associate. I sighed quietly to myself but slid over to where the man was perched on the back edge of the wagon, facing out at the dark fields.

“Hi,” I said. He jumped in surprise and near fell off the wagon onto the road, but caught himself and then pulled himself together enough to ask, “Something wrong?”

“Nope,” said I. “Just wanted to ask you something is all.”

“Oh?”

“So, uh, why’d you decide to join the army?” I asked, picking what seemed like a natural sort of conversation topic. He stared at me suspiciously and said, “I didn’t. I’m a conscript. From Blaviken.”

“Oh. How’d you end up out here?”

He evidently decided I wasn’t up to no good and looked back off at the dark countryside with a shrug.

“Most of my regiment died,” he told me. “Out on the front line. Those of us as didn’t got scattered to different assignments. At first I was just guarding prisoners in the camps, but then I got put to work for the Captain, there. Now I guard prisoners on the move. Nothing special.”

“You like it?”

“No. Would you?”

I shook my head and fought off a smile that was threatening to come over my face without my asking for it.

“Nope.”

I wasn’t really sure if Roche expected me to get anything specific out of the guy or if I was just supposed to see if we could get him on our side. That was why, when he smiled gloomily and then asked, “So how’d _you_ end up out here, then?” I more or less told him the truth. Temeria, the Blue Stripes, Vernon Roche, Dol Blathana.

“And that’s how I came to be here, I guess,” I finished, after delivering most of my life story in short form. “Name’s Ves.”

The lackey opened his mouth to say something back, but Werth chose that moment to interrupt from the driver’s seat.

“We’re almost there; go alert them camp sentries so they don’t try and shoot us. Again.” 

The man immediately jumped down and vanished into the dark with an apologetic sort of shrug toward me. I watched him go and then shot a curious look Roche’s way; he just nodded his approval back at me and then along into another tiresome Redanian camp we rolled.

There we were shown a burned mess tent, and the charred outhouse that had been the original source of the blaze. Three-odd weeks old, witnesses now all gone – marched off with the rest of their regiment to die someplace else. Four casualties.

“An accident,” Werth reported. “Fools were asleep in there on account of the cold, probably, and ought’nt have been.”

I caught Roche frowning, maybe at Werth’s casual tone, but I was too tired to care much about his callousness myself. In any case, after three weeks there wasn’t much to see except a large area of washed-out charcoal. I hung about in the background mostly, watching and yawning as Roche did this and that. He seemed immune to the lateness of the hour and unaffected by the lengthy day we’d had. I must’ve dozed off on my feet, leaning back against the wagon, because I about jumped out of my skin as his voice said, “Ves. We’re leaving,” right next to my ear.

His smug smile afterward was not necessary. I dragged myself back into the wagon and off we went again into the dark.

It’s strange that after a certain amount of time awake one starts to notice things they didn’t before. For instance, as we pulled away, I found myself staring at a bandage on the Captain’s left hand. Had it been there before? I wasn’t sure, but it had to have been. By a series of gestures I got across to Roche that I had noticed it; he squinted at the Redanian’s back and then nodded at me which probably meant he’d spotted it a long time ago. I then fell asleep for the duration of the journey, despite the cold. The wagon’s incessant jolting was probably why I dreamed, not for the first time, that I were below deck on a ship on the Pontar River, where I sat with you, Triss, laboriously copying out the alphabet, and shadowy figures joked in the background.

Vernon Roche’s elbow digging into my ribs was not the most pleasant way to be woken and I felt no less weary than I’d been before my insufficient nap. I rubbed at my eyes, groggily, wincing a little as the bruises I’d acquired over the last day made their presence known. A sliver of moon had risen and we were passing through the gates of yet another fort.

“Last one,” Werth announced, with some relief. “Here.”

He pointed at a large pile of wet ash and rubble that had obviously at some point been a building. I squinted at it and didn’t bother getting out of the wagon. Roche hit the ground, looked from the ruins to Werth and asked with notable weariness, “What’s this?”

“Used to be a smith’s workshop. Look, you can still see the furnace.”

A crumbling brick chimney did indeed rise out of the furthest corner of the remains.

“Hmm,” Roche just said in response. I caught the flunky frowning at me like I was supposed to come up with some new insight and glared at him. He immediately found something else to look at.

"Happened about a week ago," his boss was saying, meanwhile. “No casualties. No witnesses with anything helpful to say, either, far as I know. Believe they think the fire’s source was some straw caught fire in the middle of the night and the rest of the building followed. Loss, as you can see, was total.”

“Right,” Roche said to this, after a lengthy reflection. “I think I see where this is going.”

That made one of us, I guessed. He asked where we were off to next as the Captain yawned heavily.

“Next,” he said, “I’m getting some sleep. There ain’t no more burnt buildings to look at and tomorrow’s as good a time as any to hear your latest theory.”

I privately agreed with most of the sentiment, despite my nagging worry about Cozent and Petr still being locked up elsewhere. However, we did not really have a choice in the matter, and therefore eventually found ourselves in the fort’s stockade for the rest of the night. The place was a circular area fenced with walls constructed of the same rough-cut logs with which the palisade was built. Someone had knocked up a little three-walled shack near one side from scrap wood, with a canvas awning of sorts by way of cover for those held within. The other prisoners got out of the way like little fish escaping a drowner as Roche cruised in that direction. They were kept at a safe distance by the scowl on my face even after Roche dozed off with his head on my shoulder.

I amused myself by examining the firestriker I’d found on the ground in the first camp, after recalling I had it as it was poking into my ribs when I sat down. I thought, squinting at it in the inadequate light that came from over the stockade walls, that the letters on it could be _TM._ , although, flipped over, they might have read _“WL.”._ Or, I reasoned, _EM._ or _WE._ ; the stamping was poorly done and the tool had clearly seen plenty of use since. The letters were pretty well-worn. I sat and thought about the problem. The cold wind drifted a smoky smell along. I glanced up, noticing it was getting lighter out.

The other prisoners chose that exact moment to quit conversing among themselves, out of earshot on the other side of the stockade, and in a body headed our way. I glowered at them and said, irritably, “What the fuck do you want?”

“This ain’t personal, just so’s you know,” a scruffy-looking dwarf in a faded blue jacket announced. The light got brighter and the air strangely warm; I noticed, as I elbowed Roche, that the glow had an orange cast, not the blue that I would have expected if it were dawn breaking. The Commander was already awake and had only been pretending to sleep through my short exchange with the dwarf. He deflected my elbow as he opened his eyes and was on his feet before I managed to scramble up, so he helped me along by hauling me up the last few inches by the back of my jacket.

“What’s that mean?” I asked the dwarf, hoping to put off the inevitable for a few more seconds.

“Get out of our way,” Roche added. The shack behind us was on fire and burning fast as the old wood caught. Our fellow prisoners fanned out with the clear intention of keeping us under it to cook. I shifted my feet and wrapped my right fist around the firestriker I still held with the metal facing out over my fingers, figuring any weapon was better than none at all. The dwarf was shaking his head slowly at us. I went for him with no warning, landed a right-handed hit on the side of his face that sliced his cheek wide open, and then the stockade degenerated into an all-out brawl. Of course, there was not much chance we’d win out, but the fight carried me at least away from the fire and nearer the gate. Was there, to my surprise, I suddenly glimpsed Werth on the other side of the iron grating. The look on his face was neither concern or surprise. I didn’t have time to wonder about it, however, because my moment of distraction earned me a split eyebrow that sent me reeling back with blood in my eyes. Someone was now yelling _stop_ in the background, but I didn’t heed it until after I had wrapped my arm around my attacker’s neck in a chokehold.

The shouter was that dwarf, who appeared unaffected by the bloody flap of skin that was hanging off the side of his face. He was waving his arms wildly at the stockade wall, which had caught fire and was burning merrily. Mutual danger stopped the fight as more and more people heard him and instead of attacking us rushed at the gate. I myself released my choking victim, who collapsed unconscious in the dirt, and started looking around for Roche. I saw the gate swing open as the fire reached it and jumped to the wall on the other side. Thick smoke made it impossible to see much of anything after that; I coughed and stumbled around a bit, went in a blind circle, and tripped over the same man I’d put to sleep. Someone dragged me up off the ground immediately; I almost took a swing at him before I figured out it was Werth’s lackey with a wet shirt tied around his head to protect against some of the heat. The effect, with the sleeves flapping around behind his head, was bizarrely comical. So were the next few seconds as he attempted to shove me toward the gate, to which I shook my head and choked out some words about finding the Commander, accompanied by a few wild gestures. He took this to mean I was concerned about the unconscious stranger on the ground, waved his arms angrily at me, and heaved the body over his shoulder. Then, shouting over the noise of the fire and everything else that went with it, announced that we were both going to die if I didn’t get a move on.

It was hard to argue with this logic. I gave up, reluctantly, and blindly scrambled in the direction I thought the gate would be; the lackey grabbed me by the jacket as I headed off the wrong way and heaved me along. I stumbled over something in a few steps, so he half-dragged me through the gate just before the walls around it collapsed in on themselves and continued a few dozen feet on before dropping both me and the passed-out stranger.


	3. the end of the affaire

  1. the end of the affaire:



I immediately popped up and spun around to stare in appalled shock at the inferno that had once been the stockade. Then Vernon Roche appeared out of the smoke. He didn’t appear to see me and went straight for the lackey, left hand grabbing him by the front of the collar and the right around the throat. The guy made an alarmed squawking sound. I scrambled to the rescue, having seen the same look of pure murder on Roche’s face before, once or twice. Usually that blind rage wasn’t interrupted by ordinary methods of intervention, but where yanking at the back of his coat to pull him off didn’t work, my hoarse shouting of “Vernon, stop,” somehow did. He paused, turned his head slowly to stare at me, and then dropped his victim as recognition finally dawned. Although, I noticed, he didn’t let go of the man’s shirt.

“He helped me,” I explained, through the lackey’s wheezing. The implied point being _so don’t murder him._ Roche nodded, grudgingly, turned back to the unhappy creature, and growled out, “How the _fuck_ did this happen?”

To which the unfortunate sot squawked out an “I don’t know!” and added, “I just woke up and seen the flames. Please don’t kill me.”

The Commander was clearly thinking it over. I prepared to step in again, in case he came to the wrong conclusion, but was relieved to see was no cause for me to get involved as Roche abruptly let go the guy’s shirt and dropped him on the ground.

“Where’s your boss?” he demanded, which got him a helpless shake of the head in response. The shirt sleeves flapped again. I did not laugh, with some effort. Roche growled something under his breath, turned my way in frustration, hesitated, and took a deep breath or two in a visible attempt to get control of his temper.

“You alright?” he asked me. I realized that my face was covered in blood, from my eyebrow, and so was my right hand, where the firestriker I was still clutching had cut into my fingers. I forced myself to loosen my grip, poked experimentally at the gash on my face, and nodded.

“Good. It’s time to end this bullshit, I think. Give me that thing,” he said, meaning the firestriker. I handed it off to him, blood and all. “You,” he said to the lackey, “Get lost. Before I change my mind.”

“I can help,” the guy says, instead of taking the blessing and making tracks. I could have told him this were a bad idea; I shook my head at him by way of a late warning, since he’d been so kind as to risk his own life to keep me from being burned to death not that much earlier, but Roche was already turning back his way with renewed anger. He caught my head shake, maybe thought it was aimed at him, and rethought his next words for the second time in the last couple minutes.

“You want to help, go find your fucking Captain and get his ass down here. Move!”

The lackey scrambled up off the ground and vanished into the smoke. A line of half-dressed soldiers came at us out of the direction he’d gone and tramped by at the double, carrying buckets of water. Alarm bells were ringing in the near distance. A couple alarmed pigs ran about, getting in the way. Nobody was paying any attention to us, in all the turmoil. This gave us plenty of time to drag the now-groaning man I’d laid out in the stockade off to a quiet corner, away from the chaos and out of sight. Roche found a little alley of sorts, in between a tent and the palisade, dropped the unfortunate stranger on the ground amidst the flock of chickens who lived there, and started casually booting him into coherence.

I had seen this done plenty of times before and took advantage of a nearby barrel of freezing water to clean some of the dirt and blood off my face and hands and out of my eyes. By the time I was finished, Roche was, too; the singed and filthy individual was sitting up, nursing a broken tooth. Clucking birds scampered around him. He looked round with glassy eyes, from them to Roche, and then after spotting me, said resignedly, “Fuck.”

Roche said nothing. I wiped water off my face on my filthy sleeve, ruining most of the washing I’d just completed, and announced, habitually falling into one of our old scripts, “You know the drill. Talk or get the shit kicked out of you.”

“You already _did_ that,” our prisoner complained, but seeing Roche’s meaningful step his way he then raised his hands in surrender and went on, “Fine, I’m doing it. You probably want to know why it is we attacked youse, and it’s only because some Redanian officer told us he’d see we got away without hard labor or the noose if we ensured the pair of you met your end in that fire. Nothing against either of you at all.”

“You’re even harder to kill than we expected,” he noted, eyeing me especially. I smiled smugly.

“Yeah, you sure fucked that up,” I said. He cleared his throat and winced.

“You’re telling me. Anyways, it got out o’ hand with the fire and here we all are on the outside alive and more or less well, so I ain’t got too much to complain about and no real harm done, right?”

Roche shrugged. I shrugged.

“What officer is it that hatched you that deal?” I asked, naturally.

“That asshole Captain what runs the prisoner convoys, in course,” the guy says. “One with the red beard. Who else?”

I looked Roche’s way; he considered a minute, and then nodded at me.

“Bye,” I told the stranger.

“Well, nice talking to you,” he said, immediately lurching to his feet. “Hope it’s the only time.”

After he staggered off into the still-smoky camp, which now showed a blue cast to the haze that suggested dawn was breaking, I sat down on the edge of the chicken coop and watched Roche think. I had my own theories about what were going on, and, given an invitation to share them consisting of one resigned “Talk,” I jumped to my chance.

“Reckon it’s pretty clear Werth’s got something to do with that last fire,” said I. “So why not all them others, too? He goes from one camp to another all the time. Got plenty of opportunities to do whatever he wants; that guy who works for him is the type as minds his own business whenever he possibly can. Also, I mean, he tried to kill us. But can’t see why he’d burn his own side, though?”

“Maybe it isn’t him,” Roche said. He sat down, too. “Maybe it’s the flunky. He’s a conscript, he’s a long way from home, he doesn’t want to be in the army. He could well be a saboteur.”

I frowned and thought it over for all of five seconds.

“But,” I said, “If it’s him as wanted us dead, or if him and his Captain are both part of it, why’d he go in that burning stockade to find me, then?”

Roche smirked a little, either at what I said or at my rapid delivery.

“Yes. Why indeed,” he said, drily, raising an eyebrow at me. I ignored his smug tone haughtily.

“Also, it _was_ his captain tried to get the prisoners to murder us, not him. That’s what that guy said, anyway. Didn’t sound like he was lying.”

“On that point we agree,” Roche said with a tired sigh. “Fair enough. Anyway, there’s an easy way to find out for sure. We have this,” he said, producing the firestriker and wiping the dried blood off it with a rag he had in his pocket as he talked. “All we have to do is find out if it belongs to either of our suspects.”

I nodded. As I was about to ask how exactly he planned on doing that, an armored shape traipsed around the corner, spotted us, and yelled “Escaped prisoners! Help!” A pack of identically outfitted troops came at his call. Roche quickly made the evidence disappear and gave me the rag.

“Your face is bleeding again,” he said. I held the scrap of cloth up to my eyebrow as we were taken in hand by more soldiers than was in any possible way necessary. They marched us along back the way we’d come. A portly man with a large moustache was shouting at a crowd of disheveled soldiers near by the rubble that had once been the stockade - and a guardpost, and a few miscellaneous tents, and several wagons. I surveyed the still-smoking damage, impressed despite how close I’d come to being part of it.

“Ah,” Roche commented in a low voice through the familiar sounds of someone being metaphorically given a fresh hole to shit through, “That’ll be the camp overseer. Or, I believe, the Redanians call it the Commandant.”

I squinted at the speaker, and, as some especially colorful phrasing floated our way, asked, “Should I be taking reference notes for you?”

“I would never sound like that,” Roche replied.

“No, never,” I mumbled, but he didn’t appear to hear me as he froze and looked away suddenly, like a dog that’s spotted a cat. I followed his gaze along to see the red hair of Captain Werth and accompanying lackey as the pair innocently strolled round the edge of the crowd. Roche abruptly turned, strode away from our unwary escort – I made a grab for the back of his jacket, but missed – and marched across to the Captain. He then grabbed the shocked man by the collar and slammed his bent elbow directly into the unfortunate’s nose. I heard the crack of it breaking from where I was still standing, a little open-mouthed, some ten yards away.

The shouting instantly stopped, as did all other noise in the area as everyone turned to stare at the incident. Werth dropped to his knees like a sack of rocks when Roche let him go, clutching his face as blood streamed down his chin and dripped into the dirt. I struggled to not laugh at the collective astonishment, failed, and had to pretend I was coughing instead. This was not difficult, due to the amount of smoke I’d inhaled lately. Other than my own apparent fit of choking, silence reigned, as if the entire camp was taking a deep breath, and then the chaos resumed.

We were both re-arrested, of course, with a quick beatdown for Roche for good measure. I gave him the rag back after it was over; he sat on a crate with it held to his freshly split lower lip in surly silence. We’d been shut in a rough-cut building that seemed to normally be a storage shed, with Werth’s lackey to keep an eye on us.

“Why did you do that?” he finally asked, after some minutes of staring at us silently. Roche smiled coldly at him and said, in a tone to match, “Never you mind. Since you’re here, what are your initials?”

“What?”

“Initials,” Roche repeated, dropping the filthy rag on the floor and standing to tower over him. Of course, he was armed and Roche wasn’t, which made _me_ a little nervous, but the Commander didn’t appear to be worried about it so I stayed where I was. The lackey shook his head helplessly and looked my way as if I might call Roche off again. I did not.

“Your name, man,” I explained, rolling my eyes. “What is it?”

He still looked lost, but stammered out, “It’s Greene. Idler Greene. Why?”

Neither of us responded; I refrained from shooting a gloating smirk Roche’s way, as he was not in the most forgiving of moods thanks to his beating. Still, I privately felt pleased with myself, as the letters on the firestriker might’ve been hard to make out exact, but neither of them could possibly be a _G._

Roche next, unexpectedly, produced the tool in question, and asked, “Ever seen this before?” but before Idler Greene could reply the door banged open and his irate supervisor stomped through. His eyes naturally went straight to the Commander, then dropped to the object in Roche’s hand. I saw his bandage hand twitch and, I thought, it might have been he went a little paler, but it was hard to tell around the bloodstained piece of cloth he had wrapped round the middle of his face. Roche likely noticed the little flinch too, but he made no sign if so and only asked Greene, “And what’s _his_ full name?”

“Don’t know, sir,” said the now even more uncertain-looking soldier.

“What?” Werth said, bloodshot gaze going between him and Roche. “What the fuck are you up to in here, Private?”

I stood, smelling yet another fight on the wind. Roche’s unblacked eye had narrowed dangerously; he said, threatening, “Your name, _Captain,_ ” and for a moment it seemed he might have just enough menace behind it to get an answer. Wert briefly seemed hesitant and glanced away, but his eyes again settled on the tool Roche was still holding. The sight seemed to spark new belligerence as he replied, “What’s it to you? Where’d you get that?”

“Out behind that burned barracks tent,” I put in, hoping that it would distract the two from going back to beating the shit out of each other. “It look familiar?”

“Why would it?” the Captain answered, turning a disagreeable sneer my direction, which seemed to be something of the last straw for Roche as he took advantage of the man’s distraction to plant his fist in Werth’s nose yet again. The Captain fell backwards and hit the ground down the steps outside like a felled tree. Roche bulled out the door after him without hesitation; I stepped up to the opening to see if maybe the Redanian had died and if not to perhaps prevent Roche from making it so, but he was already sitting up and all the guards within view had turned out to prepare to rough the Commander up again. I sighed wearily and resigned myself to earning still more bruises in his defense.

Luckily, just before the scene devolved into a repeat of the previous, a familiar bellow halted it. The camp’s Commandant had joined the public forum. I therefore stayed where I was in the doorway. Idler Greene peered curiously over my shoulder at the goings on.

“I can explain all this, sir,” Roche said to the Commandant in the silence that followed, which to everyone’s surprise including mine he was given leave to do, and so he held up the firestriker and delivered a brief lecture:

The fires set in the camps, he noted, had to have been done by someone who traveled to all of them and had knowledge of the guards and patrol routes of each. Also, he’d had to have some idea of the habits of the individuals involved. For instance, Moth back at the first scene was obviously usually drunk, on duty or off. They’d have to know the fact that the mess tent was normally empty at night and that the barracks was temporarily unoccupied. Since (as I’d already said before) Squirrels would have attacked inhabited buildings if they’d risked carrying out an action on a busy military camp at all, not empty tents, the most likely culprit was a Redanian soldier. Naturally, all number of individuals might fit the description, but someone had happened to leave a firestriker behind at a scene, which had certain identifying marks.

This was handed off to the Commandant; he squinted at it and then asked, evidently being no fool, “And why is it you’ve decided out of all people the Captain here’s to blame? This tool is standard military issue. It could belong to most anyone.”

I wondered this myself, as, of course, we’d both had a hunch, but that hunch had clearly developed well past the point of suspicion as far as Roche was concerned.

“Well,” Roche said, “There are two details, if I’m right, that’ll prove it. First, whatever’s under that bandage on his hand.”

The Commandant’s eyes settled on it; Werth was holding it up to his broken nose and it was soaked with blood.

“Very well,” he said, and then, to forestall any protest, “If you’re innocent, Captain, what’s the harm? You, Private. Do it.”

Greene looked less than happy to be singled out, but he pushed around me, descended to ground level, and did as he was told. The bandage was removed, the injury it had concealed scrutinized briefly. It was a burn, Idler later told me, as I couldn’t see for sure what it was Roche was comparing to the shape of the firestriker.

“Look,” he said. “It matches up to the curve and width. Most likely he set the fire with it and it got too hot and he dropped it.”

“So it does,” the Commandant agreed. “And?”

“ _And,_ ” Roche continued, a little testily, “There’s those initials on it, as you see, so if we knew the Captain’s full name- “

“Ah.” The Commandant scratched his moustache, thinking, then said, “Elbedon, isn’t it? Captain Wertham Elbedon.”

I regarded my feet a moment to hide my triumphant grin, so I did not see the result of Roche’s pronouncement, “ _WE.,_ right there.” Given Werth’s swearing, of innocence and otherwise, I could easily imagine how it looked anyway.

“Shut up,” the Commandant said finally. I looked up again in time to see the order backed up with a solid kick by one of the Redanian guards who’d been standing about. Roche looked pleased with himself, despite his black eye and still slightly bloody lip. Idler stood to one side, staring down at his own shoes.

“Well,” he continued as silence returned, “This all seems to be in order. Corporal, arrest this man.”

Nothing happened for a moment; everyone but Werth followed the Commandant’s expectant gaze to Idler, who slowly looked up and stared back, uncomprehending, till I stepped out, reached over, and gave him a little shove to get him moving.

The Captain was therefore put in irons and taken away by his own former lackey, which was the last we ever saw of him, although not of Idler Greene.

By late afternoon, we had been waiting around a long time for the meeting we were to attend with King Radovid. Or, I mean, Roche was to attend, but when an attempt to leave me outside was made he just said “Ves goes where I do,” which left little room for argument and our escort were too intimidated to try. I knew how to keep my mouth shut and myself uninteresting, having done so in many a meeting with Foltest, and so that was exactly what I did the entire time Roche and his latest royal patron were talking.

Not that the Redanian king were much like Foltest at all, I thought on getting a look at him, but of course I kept my opinion to myself as Roche detailed what he’d earlier told the Commandant plus some more things he hadn’t. Some of it was clearly just guesswork, but it was all the type of guessing he did best. For instance, he described at length something that he called a “criminal pattern”, to wit: “the perpetrator targeted buildings that were easily flammable, poorly guarded, and conveniently accessible, but also supposedly uninhabited and not especially hard to replace. Tents, for the most part.” As a result, the cost of the damage done by the fires, whether in treasure or lives, had been minimal.

“What about the blacksmith?” Radovid asked, which I had forgotten about.

“I suspect that was an unrelated incident,” Roche said without hesitation, “Maybe someone who didn’t know any better decided to group it in with the others by association. Or, maybe, it was hoped its inclusion would confuse investigators, but I don’t think the perpetrator is bright enough to think of something like that.”

The explanation was accepted with a nod, and the only other sticking point that came up was “motive,” which wasn’t something I cared much about but Roche had an answer for it of course:

“The low impact targets, in my opinion, suggest that the fires weren’t meant to cause major damage as in a planned sabotage effort. In fact, the irregular time periods between them and the failure of the attempt at the stable just the other night leads me to suspect the locations were chosen spontaneously, at random. Because they were convenient, but not too likely to kill anyone.”

“So?”

The Commander shrugged.

“I suspect the arsonist set them for his own amusement, no other reason. Aside from the one in the stockade last night, of course. It’s interesting that the most successful of the fires was the one that was specifically set to kill us. It’s perhaps lucky we caught him when we did; I’ve seen in the past that such successes can turn a fairly non-aggressive criminal of this sort much more destructive. It’s as if the game loses its flavor without casualties..”

At the word _us_ , Radovid’s eyes turned my way for a second; I stood very still, feeling like I was trying to avoid the attention of a slightly mad dog and he lost interest in me again a moment later. He then waved a dismissive hand toward Roche’s theoretical musings.

“Who else knows about your – theory?” he interrupted; the Commander allowed that although he hadn’t discussed it with anyone that wasn’t presently in the room, the evidence was out there. Not everyone had every piece of it, but a sharp enough customer could maybe figure it out. Radovid seemed similarly uninterested in these details.

“Well then, in your opinion, were the Captain to confess to being a fifth columnist, and be sentenced accordingly, would anyone but you and I know anything different?”

“No,” Roche said, “Or, not very likely. Not anyone who’d say anything, at least.”

“Your associate there being one, obviously,” the King noted. I tried not to fidget.

“She won’t talk.”

“What about the criminal’s former assistant? The Corporal?”

Roche hesitated before saying, carefully, “Well, the man’s not the sharpest of knives, but I guess I can’t be _completely_ sure of him.”

“Pity. Well, this can work to our advantage, I suppose. Two saboteurs at once is better than just the one.”

Roche seemed to have no good answer to make to this statement; I of course had thought of several all at once, but with heroic effort forced myself to keep a lid on them. Fortunately, with that the interview suddenly ended. Radovid stood and announced grandly, “It seems your reputation is not exaggerated, Commander, and so I imagine we’ll have more work for you soon enough.”

Roche just nodded and bowed. I was ready to bolt the instant we were left alone, but he shook his head at me as I made a sharp movement toward the door that the King of Redania has just departed through, so I had to stay where I was. After what felt like a long time to me, I opened my mouth to ask what we were waiting on, but Roche cut me off with another shake of his head. It was only after the last sound of horses departing ended and he had stepped over and peered through the crack in the shutters for a moment with his less swollen eye that he made it clear I was allowed to talk by nodding wearily at me.

“Are they really gonna try and frame that Idler Greene for all this?” I demanded. Roche shrugged and opened his mouth, but I rushed on and added, “But why? Why not just leave him be, or tell the truth about why Werth done all that stuff, for that matter?”

Roche gave me a second, apparently to make sure I was finished, before he explained, “Well, even if they beat the truth out of the real criminal, and even if the truth agrees with my little theory, of which there’s no guarantee, it won’t do them – the Redanian army, I mean – much good. On the other hand, hanging a couple saboteurs, and blaming Nilfgaard for planting them, is an object lesson for everyone who hears about it. Which, I have little doubt, _everyone_ will.”

“But Idler didn’t do nothing wrong.”

“Well, no, but since when has that mattered?

I here mumbled something about it mattering to _me_ , which the Commander smiled at me for.

“The question you should really be asking is what’s to be done about it,” he said. “Which, well, _I’m_ not likely to get away with any involvement. However, nobody much is smart enough to pay attention what _you_ do, most of the time.”

I stared at him blankly.

“So, he added, after a pause where I was clearly expected to arrive at an obvious conclusion but didn’t which seemed to annoy him slightly, “Were it to happen that your Idler Greene –“

“He’s not _my_ Idler Greene,” I said automatically. Roche talked over me with an impatient eye roll.

“ – was to up and vanish during the night, it’s doubtful anyone important would notice that you and I weren’t attached at the hip around that same time.”

“Oh,” I said.

“We’re off next to collect Cozent and Petr,” he added, shook his head in mild hopelessness at my finally comprehending nod, and walked out. I trailed along behind, and then as dusk fell and we neared the bridge over the river, I hopped off the wagon into a field and slunk off toward the column of smoke that still rose from the fort.

The place looked the exact same as before, but with even more people milling around. A new regiment of soldiers seemingly had turned up, which were fortunate as the crowds of men in various stages of drunkenness made going unnoticed very easy. I stole a blanket which I kept over my head and due to that, along with my filthy clothing and the fact that I stuck to the shadows as much as possible, I made it past the gate without anyone giving me a second look. I had no idea if Idler would be still be around or where he might be found, but my randomly chosen route carried me along to the scene of the burned stockade, where I spotted him sitting on the steps of the building where Roche and I had been shut up earlier that day. He looked even gloomier than usual but that changed when I made an appearance.

“What are you doin’ here?” he asked, much too loudly, openly shocked but apparently not displeased. I shushed him angrily. 

“Saving your neck, dipshit. What do you think?”

“What?”

“We gotta go,” I growled, noticing that the hour was getting late and that our conversation was attracting a little interest from a pair of goons that not at all inconspicuously stood across the way under a lamppost. “Listen, you’re being set up, get it? They’re gonna make you take the fall with your old Captain.”

“He’s in there locked up,” Idler said, slowly, “And I’m out here, on watch. I don’t see how- “

“Can’t we talk details later?” I asked. “Time’s wasting.”

“- and who’s _they?_ This could be a trick,” he commented. I shook my head that it wasn’t. As I did, the goons started making their way along, openly eyeing us. Idler watched as they passed, looking downright troubled, and then said, “Promise me it ain’t one and I’ll take your word for it.”

“I promise,” I said quickly; the two guys had turned and were coming back around with a new spring in their step. Idler nodded, said, “Fair enough,” stood up, stretched himself nonchalantly and added, “How you want to play this?”

“No time for left for games,” I said, giving him a shove. “Walk, fast.”

He did as I said, with no further argument. The goons kept after us, no matter how much we sped up as we went through the camp, until by the time we were going out the gate we were practically running. One of our followers yelled out “deserters” as we passed the guards and we booked it instantly. The sound of their boots pounding the frozen ground behind kept us going despite how worn out I was getting and the fact that I still felt pretty rough from breathing in all that smoke earlier in the day. After a long time, we heard one trip and fall heavily. That just left one, who appeared to never get tired and made no stop to help his fallen comrade. We went on and on, and eventually turned down a little side path into a patch of woods, which at least slowed him up. As we turned a steep corner and gained a little distance on the downhill, I heard water running down the hill and yanked Idler that direction, despite the dark. We both lost our footing and tumbled down into the pitch blackness below, where we lay still in the shadows by the side of the little creek I’d heard. In not much time, we saw a black shape against the starry sky that jogged steadily past our hiding spot and onwards.

We stayed put in silence, breathing as quiet as possible. A while later, a second dark silhouette passed along the path, limping heavily and keeping up a quiet but intense string of curses. We waited a while longer but nothing else happened, so I sat up with a pleased grin on my face and blew a frosty breath into the cold night air.

“Reckon they’ll be halfway to Oxenfurt by dawn and still wondering what’s happened to us,” I announced, tho’ not very loudly. Idler sort of laughed and stayed where he was, looking up at me.

“So,” he said to me, “You gonna explain why we just did all that, or what?”

I did, more or less. I’d been reminded the meeting we’d had with Radovid was top secret and so had to make it sound like we had just learned about the plan to hang Idler with Werth for the same crime from nobody in particular. The resulting partially invented story rang a little false, in parts. He thought what I’d said through when I was done, but asked no questions about my extreme vagueness and only said, “So what now?”

“Well, I’m headed home. Or, not _home,_ but close enough. Guess now you can do whatever you want?” I replied.

“Well, _I_ can’t go home,” he said. “Can’t stick around here, neither; I ain’t exactly a local and doubt I’d blend into some village or other even if I tried. Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful you didn’t leave me to hang, but..”

“Oh, I get it,” I said. I didn’t have to think much on his problem, as an easy solution came right to mind. “Well, I figure we – me and the Commander, I mean - can always use another man as already knows how to use a sword, and I know you ain’t a Temerian but in this situation I don’t think the Commander would hold that against you.”

“Oh,” he said, looking surprised by the turn things had taken, or maybe by the offer itself, “I, uh, why not? I mean, I’d be glad to.”

“That’s settled,” I said. “We should get going. Just in case them two decide to turn back.”

We cut down through the woods, avoiding the trail and the road, headed southwest by the stars. Silence reigned for a few miles, and then Idler coughed awkwardly and asked me, “So what is it you and your Commander _do_ , exactly?”

The explanation lasted us all the way back to the caves, where Vernon Roche did not seem at all surprised to see Idler trailing along in my shadow when I turned up, and where I found that Petr had survived his ordeal and no permanent harm had been done to Cozent, either.

“Ain’t he the man who hit me with that fucking club?” he asked, on spotting Idler.

“That’s me,” Idler answered. “You want to get a free shot in, be my guest.”

After which Cozent punched him in the dome and the trouble was forgotten. And therein lies an example for all men be they king or sorceress or otherwise, I believe. Once a wrong’s been righted according, that should be an end to the matter. Anything else leads inevitably to worse ill.

Regards,

_Ves,_

_Written in Vizima in Sept. year 1278_

_ps. should It turn out that you read these Words after all as I am not sure you don’t open my mail when the mood takes you, Vernon, don’t blame me for them as they are the fault of Triss Merigold who wished to know the Tale. – Ves._


End file.
